Sherlock felt heat bloom across his cheeks as he blushed, despite his best efforts not to. He concentrated on the looping pattern of the carpet under his feet (while trying to ignore his reflection in the shiny, white, patent leather of his buckled shoes).
“A bit higher, love…let Uncle Greg get a good look at you.”
Sherlock’s belly gave a funny, albeit not unpleasant twist at the words. He obeyed, and lifted the ruffled hem of his pink tulle skirt. Underneath, his cock strained heavily against the thin fabric of his matching panties…already, there was a tiny, darkened spot where a bit of precum had leaked.
Across the room, Greg tsk’ed; “Stained your knickers already, muffin? That’s not good. Come here.”
Sherlock swallowed thickly and walked towards Greg, the spot on his panties already growing.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“That’s it, there’s a good girl,” Greg practically growled, his voice a constant rumble in Sherlock’s ears. “Just a little more, that’s it…show me how good you are.”
Sherlock grunted as he rocked against Greg’s thigh, straddled between his thighs. “I, I, I…” Sherlock breathed, unable to say or even think more than a string of barely comprehensible words. “G-good, yeah.”
“ ‘Yeah’, what?!”Greg reached back and swatted Sherlock’s panty-clad arse, and Sherlock sucked in a sharp gasp as the throbbing in his cock quickened to a pace that made him see stars. His grinding became frantic. “Y-yeah, ungh, y-yes, yessssir!” he babbled.
Greg rumbled his approval as he kneaded Sherlock pert little asscheek in his hand roughly. “Better.” He then took both hands and suddenly held Sherlock’s waist, stilling him.
Sherlock mewled pathetically…he’d been so close.
Greg squeezed, and Sherlock gasped again at the sharp pain from Greg’s fingers digging in to his flesh.
“Now..,” Greg let one hand drift to Sherlock’s cock and play with it through the silky-soft garment, using one fingertip to trace the outline from his balls to the head, making Sherlock twitch–
“…piss yourself.”
Sherlock moaned and let his head fall back as he began to pee, a thin dribble and quickly turning into a hot, thick flood as he let go what he’d been holding back since their game began.
Greg gritted his teeth as he watched his hand get coated in hot piss and yanked the waistband of Sherloc’s panties down, freeing his still-pissing cock and flinging droplets onto his own shirt. “Jesus fuck,” he groaned, and then took Sherlock’s cock in his hand and started to rub him off. “Filthy little girl, you’re Uncle Greg’s disgusting little piss princess, aren’t you?!”
Sherlock was wordless as he began to thrust in Greg’s grip. They were far from finished with their game.
Uncle Greg had a piss kink. And Sherlock was all too eager to play along.
Lol, that was quick! 😛 I’ll work on one ( it’ll probably be pillow humping, shhh) when I get back on my computer, nonny!
Sadie:
12.
Diapered pillow humping (nsfw under the cut)
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Be Ready.”
That was the last text John had sent right before getting off work. The last, and only text he’d sent in response to several filthy and increasingly needy texts from one particularly needy little boy.
“Be Ready.”
John checked his phone again, just as he was leaving the clinic: no answer.
Good. That meant that previously idle hands were now busy.
John took his time getting home, a faint smirk permanently plastered onto his face (and his cock straining against the fly of his trousers).
He took his time going up the stoop.
He took his time climbing the stairs (and making as much noise as possible as he did so).
He could hear the heavy panting even before he made it to their landing.
He took his time opening the door (again, making as much noise as he could with fumbling and jingling his keys on purpose).
All of that time and patience and straining and throbbing proved worth it as he opened the door…
And there was Sherlock in the middle of the sitting room floor, stripped down to nothing but the nappy John had left him in that morning…straddling John’s pillow and thrusting into it with enough force that John’s cock nearly busted though his zipper.
John was watching as Sherlock’s arse rose and fell, rose and fell, rose and fell in time with the grunting, when the salacious little whore looked up and noticed that he had an audience.
It didn’t stop him. If anything, he quickened his pace as he stared at John, slack-jawed and eyes glazed over, face and chest flushed with the effort.
Drool dribbled from the corner of Sherlock’s open, heaving mouth, leaving a long, thin line from his bottom lip to the puddle it left on the floor below him.
John bit his lip and reached down to squeeze his cock through his jeans.
Making a trip to the shop was the very last thing that one Sherlock Holmes wanted to spend his day doing.
Maybe not the last thing. Anything that involved his brother would be the last thing. Or helping Ms. Hudson look at carpet swatches (not that the flat needed new carpeting, but did anyone listen to him. No. Of course not). Those would be the very last things.
Sherlock felt the little hand that was held in his start to slip from his grasp, and he gave it a squeeze. “No, Molly.”
“Bu’d Sheeeerrrr’yooooooock!”
…But a trip to the shop with an antsy, active Little who wants to look at and touch everything her grubby little hands can reach while in headspace?
That would be pretty darn close to the bottom of the list.
“Molly, what was my one rule?”
Molly refused to answer him, a sure sign that she was pouting as hard as her little face could.
Sherlock glanced down at the little girl standing stiffly at his side…oh, yes. Face absolutely puckered into a harsh frown and bottom lip jutting out about a yard.
He gave her a small nudge with his elbow. “Molly,” he said again. “What was the rule for coming with me?”
Molly continued to ignore him.
“Hmmm…since you seem to have been struck by a mystery illness and lost your voice, I suppose we should turn around and go home…”
Molly whinged and stomped her foot.
“Molly.”
She had enough experience to know that he wasn’t bluffing when he said that, either. “…S’day wi’f yooooou,” she answered finally, with a more-dramatic-than-necessary sigh.
“Very good, you stay with me.” Sherlock gave her hand another tug, urging her to follow along after him. “Remember what happens when you follow the rules?”
Molly, who’d been shuffling along begrudgingly and dragging her heels while she did so, perked up a bit. “G’ed a pri’ce?” she asked, looking up at him hopefully as they passed through the automatic doors.
“You do remember, you clever girl.”
Molly beamed, and trotted along beside him with a newfound pep in her step.
Sherlock smiled, despite his initial reluctance to be here…maybe it wouldn’t be such a hassle of a trip after all.
He led Molly back to the refrigerated section, where they would find the sole reason for the trip…you guessed it–they had run out of milk. Again.
Molly chattered at his side while he perused the literal wall of milk; “…an’, an’ Pe’bba, she couldn’, um, she couldn’ whi’thle, even though she tried really, really hard! An’, um, then she called–”
‘What kind did John buy, again?’ He couldn’t remember. All he knew was that it had a cow on the front–which they all did, he noticed with no small amount of disdain.
“–an’ i’d was sooooo fun’nee!” Molly giggled. “An’, an’ then she–!”
Blast it. And John had made it a point to mention the name of the brand no less than four times before he’d sent them on their way. Sherlock let go of Molly’s hand a reached into his pocket for his mobile. He’d have to text him and ask again, damn it all. And John wouldn’t be letting this slide without copping an attitude.
It wasn’t his fault that it was so easy to tune John out when all he did was drone on and on and on–
Sherlock suddenly paused mid-text.
It was quiet.
He looked around quickly–Molly was nowhere to be seen.
Sherlock felt his heart sink to the pit of his stomach (which he’d always wondered how true that statement was, and the answer was ‘very’). “Molly??” He looked around quickly, hoping that Molly had just wandered away a few steps, but she was nowhere to be seen.
The sinking feeling in his stomach was replaced by a heart-pounding panic when there was no answer, and no little girl to be seen. “Molly?!? MOLLY!” he called out, and still–nothing in reply.
‘What are you doing just standing there? Go LOOK for her!’ Sherlock began to hurry to the other end of the store, looking down every aisle and trying to quell the urge to run while screaming her name. It wasn’t a big store, she couldn’t have gone very far, she knew better than to talk to strangers, and…
Each aisle he passed–no Molly. Each time he called out her name–no Molly.
He felt his panic starting to creep up into his chest.
“MOLLY!”
“…Sher’yock?”
The detective literally skidded to a stop, his shoes leaving ugly blacks marks on the lino, and whirled around to see Molly stepping out of an aisle that had been in the opposite direction, a book held in her hands. She looked utterly confused.
The icy grip that had been clutching Sherlock’s stomach released it’s hold, and he very nearly pissed himself out of relief. He rushed back to her and as soon as he was within reach, he grabbed her and pulled her into an enthusiastic hug and held her to his chest until she began to wriggle. “Ou’sh, Sher’yooooooock…you’re s’keeshing me!”
Sherlock made himself release his hold on her…yet he still kept his hands firmly on her shoulders. “Where were you?!” he asked, his breath coming out in one relieved rush.
Molly’s eyes had grown wide, and had an uneasy look in them as she stared up at Sherlock. “Um, I wen’d, um, I wen’d to y’ook at’ta books,” she whispered, her head dipping lower and lower until she was almost looking at the floor.
Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief. “Don’t ever, ever walk away like that again,” he scolded, letting go of one shoulder to wag a finger in her face. “That was the one thing I told you not to do, Molly…no-no!” He took her by the hand, and continued to fuss as they walked back to the entrance. “You’re going straight to the naughty step the very second we get home, and–”
He was cut short as he finally met her gaze again.
Molly was biting her lip in an effort not to cry, eyes glassed over with tears, and the poor thing was shaking like a leaf while she still clutched the picture book she’d been holding to her chest.
Sherlock’s resolved wilted, and he loosed his grip on her hand. He bent down close, and lowered his voice. “Look, Molly,” he began, softly. “I didn’t mean to shout. It just gave me a fright when looked up and couldn’t see you.”
Molly nodded her head, and a tear rolled down her cheek.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, and stood up to give her a less-harried (and much nicer) hug.
Molly promptly buried her face into his coat and clutched the back of it on both hands.
“Just…please stay where I can see you next time, yes?” he asked, petting her hair.
Molly nodded again, and Sherlock kissed the top of her head. “Let’s just go home,” he sighed, and started to leave.
“You know, Molly…”
Molly lifted her head and blinked up at him with her big, brown doe-eyes.
“…This would be a lot easier if you held my hand instead of my coat.”
Those same eyes crinkled at the edges as she smiled up at him, and he smiled back. “S’rr’ee, Sher’yock,” she whispered as she let go of his coat and took his hand instead.
“It’s fine now, darling,” he said, leading them back through the sliding doors…but not before gently slipping the book out of her arms, and setting it aside on a fruit display.
Molly turned to look over her shoulder. “…No pri’ce?” she asked hesitantly, batting her eyelashes at him.
Sherlock just gave her a look, and she dropped her gaze to the sidewalk. they both remained quiet on the walk home.
They had just turned onto Baker Street, when Molly piped up again in her tiny little voice; “…Sher’yock?”
“Yes, you still have to sit on the step.”
Molly pouted. “Tha’s no’d wha’s I wa’ss gon’na saaaay!” she whinged.
“Mmmmmmm, my apologies. What were you going to say?”
Little Molly didn’t answer straightaway…all of her concentration was focused on getting the super-special-shiny-dino stickers that Sher’yock had given her to sit on the Lego block juuuuuuuussss’ ri’de before pressing down and sticking it into place.
Because, as Molly knew, once you stick a sticker, it’s there FOREVER. So you have to be totally, completely, absolutely 100% sure that you stick your stickers somewhere safe.
Because it’s stuck there. FOREVER.
“Molly,” John tried again.
Molly hunched down further over the lego in her hand, the tip of her tongue poking out in concentration.
“Molly. MOLLY. MOLL-EE. MOLL-EE HOOP-AH!”
Molly finally got the tiny, three-horn-shaped sticker centered and pressed it down, cementing it forever onto the tiny plastic block with a delighted “Yay!” and a happy bum wiggle.
John threw up his hands and gave Sherlock a look that perfectly encapsulated an emoji that the detective had seen used more than once in text messages from the good doctor himself: “ D:< ”
Sherlock was pinching his lips and nearly asphyxiating on his own, barely contained laughter. He shook his head and looked away while he collected himself (in order to not get murdered in front of the sweet little angel-tot under their care today), and when he finally felt back under his own control, he looked down at the little pigtailed munchkin sitting at his feet. “Molly,” he said, nudging her bum with his foot.
Molly looked up from the sheet of stickers in her hand. “Wha’d???”
“Uncle John wants your attention, darling.”
“Unc’a Jawn?”
“Yes…he’s been trying for several minutes.”
“Ohhhhh…why didn’, um, why didn’ he say so???”
“I did.”
Molly whirled around and looked up at John, her eyes widening. “Oh….Hiiiiiiii, Unc’a Jawn!” she chirped, genuinely surprised to see him there.
John’s face visibly softened, and Sherlock smirked; John was such a pushover, and didn’t even know it.
John bent down with his hands on his knees; “Molly, sweetheart, precious, cupcake, baby doll, angel…where did you put my phone?”
“Your wha’d???”
John’s smile never faltered, but it lost a bit of the, uh, the shine. “My phone, darling. You know, I let you play a game on it?”
Molly gasped; “Ohhhhhh, Can’ee Crunch???” she asked, clasping her hands under her chin. “I y’uuuuuuuub tha’d game! I bea’d i’d an’ go’d a high score, a’–!”
“That’s wonderful princes, but where did you put it when you were done?”
“Where I pu’d i’d?”“
John’s face looked as if it were close to cracking. “Yes, darling,” he said slowly. “I need it back; where did you leave it.”
Molly tilted her head and bit her lip while she thought. “Ummmmm,” she hummed out loud, then wrinkled her nose and shrugged. “I dun’no!”
John’s smile seemed to be unnaturally frozen in place. “…What.”
Molly shrugged again, and giggled.
“John.”
“Molly, I need you to find my phone. Now.”
“John…”
“Shut up. Molly, Uncle John isn’t kidding around, one…”
“John.”
“If I have to get to three, you’re going on the naughty step. Two…”
Just as John was opening his mouth for a ‘Three’, the back right pocket of his trousers started to vibrate, causing his mouth to snap shut just as his ringtone started to play: “Ooga chaka Ooga chaka Ooga Ooga Ooga chaka…”
Sherlock and Molly both burst out laughing as John reached into his back pocket and retrieved his phone, only to see that it was Sherlock himself calling. “What the hell–???”
Sherlock wiped his eyes while Molly was still doubled over, clutching her belly. “G-good girl,” he stammered, and held his hand down for a tiny high-five. “Very, v-very good!”
John just stared at them as if they’d lost their minds…and at this rate, they may very well have. “What.”
Sherlock cleared his throat, thought his was still grinning like…well, like an idiot. “I, I bet her a new outfit if she could find a way to get your phone back onto your person without you noticing,” he explained, still chuckling to himself, and then reached down for Molly. “And she did!” he cheered, lifting her into his lap. “Clever girl!”
“Ha-ha-ha,” John said flatly. “Yes, I’m the idiot, now both of you can go sit on the step, ha-ha-ha.”
Molly giggled and leaned back against Sherlock’s chest while he gave her a peck on the cheek…
Sadie: Not a problem at all, anon…oh, and we really don’t get that many messages here; we’re not popular. 😛
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Stay right here and pick up your toys, muffin. Greg’ll be back in a minute.”
Now, is there anywhere in that sentence, subtext or otherwise, that sounds like “Please, overgrown toddler man-child, disappear while the person who’s supposed to be watching you goes for a quick wee in the five free minutes he has before getting dinner started.”
No, you say? Nothing like that at all?
Yeah, that’s what Greg had thought, too. So, needless to say, that when he came back out of the loo to find toys and lego’s and puzzle pieces still all over the floor and no little detective to be had picking them up, Greg had to stop and question himself if he’d actually said what he thought he’d said.
…And then came a clatter from the kitchen.
Dammit.
Greg quick-stepped to the kitchen in record time, but once he turned the corner, he froze.
Now, I ask you one more time…does “Stay right here and pick up your toys, muffin,” sound anything, anything like “Please go into the kitchen without me, turn on the stove, and then climb onto the counter directly next to the stove with your bare leg pants-shittingly close to the glowing hot eye”?!?
No? Still not the same?
That’s what Greg thought.
Seeing Sherlock’s nappied bum up on his knees on the counter, his bare calf within inches of the glowing red burner, Greg’s heart seized in his chest…and then he acted. He was across the room before he realised it himself and grabbed Sherlock ‘round the waist, then spun him off the cabinet before he could even cry out in surprise.
It was only when Sherlock’s feet were safely on the floor, that Greg felt his heart start beating again…three times as fast as it was supposed to, mind, but at least it was still working. “What,” he wheezed, more than little out-of-breath after the marathon he’d just run, “were you doing?!”
Sherlock’a little surprised ‘o’ of a mouth split into a wide grin. “I was hel’bing!”
Greg just stared at him, mouth hanging open. “...What!?”
“Hel’bing ma’ge dinner!”
Greg was having a hard time processing this. Sure, he heard the words, he could see Sherlock saying them, but they just weren’t connecting or his synapses weren’t firing right or something, because this still wasn’t making any sense. “You are not–!” he stuttered, “You know you’re not…you are not to touch the stove!”
Sherlock’s face faltered. G’eg didn’t seem as pleased as he thought he’d be. “I wa’ss bein’ care’bul…”
“Not careful enough, little man!” Greg still had Sherlock by the shoulders, and now spun him around and landed two sharp swats in quick succession to the pair of chubby cheeks peeking out from the bottom of the little detective’s nappy.
Caught off guard, Sherlock did little more than gasp and go up on his toes, then stared at Greg, mouth hanging open in shock.
Greg could only stare back…Sherlock hadn’t been the only one taken by surprise. Greg was not the one to practice physical discipline with the boys…he usually left that to Mycroft.
So the fact that he was holding the baby, palm still poised for a smack, was not…it was not good; not to him.
Sherlock had been too surprised at first to react much, but now…well, now the sting was starting to set in. He stared at Greg, his breath coming in quick huffs as his eyes watered and vision blurred…
Then, while Greg could do nothing but watch, Sherlock’s face crumbled, and he began to cry.
Greg felt his heart crumble the same way. “Oh, muffin,” he sighed, and wrapped Sherlock in a tight hug. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
Sherlock laid his head on Greg’s shoulder and wept. “S-ss-sss’aw-aw’rrrreeee,” he stammered.
Greg felt like crying, too. “C’mere, sweetheart. Come sit with Greg for a second,” he said, pulling away from Sherlock (which was hard enough, even if the baby hadn’t been clutching the back of his shirt) and leading him to one of the chairs around the table with an arm around his waist.
Greg sat down first, and guided Sherlock into his lap. The tyke leaned against him, still sniffling and rubbing his hand over his cheeks and nose.
Greg cuddled him close and kissed his temple. “I’m very sorry I spanked you,” he said, starting with that first and foremost. “I just got spooked.”
“S-spoo’ged?”
“Yeah…see, you were awfully close to burning yourself up there, and that scared Greg.”
Sherlock laid his head on Greg’s shoulder. “Bu’d I wa’ss care’bul…”
“Your leg was really, really close to getting burnt, muffin. Like, that close,” Greg added, holding his fingers less than an inch apart to show him.
Sherlock stuck his thumb in his mouth, and curled his fingers over the bridge of his nose. “Tha’ds c’yose,” he said.
“Too close,” Greg agreed, and started to rub Sherlock’s back. “That’s why Mycroft and I don’t let you around the oven when it’s on. We don’t want you getting hurt.”
Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “…Span’gs hur’d,” he finally mumbled.
Despite himself, the corner of Greg’s mouth twitched up. “Yeah, and I apologized for that. But at least a spanking won’t cause third degree burns and a trip to the A&E.”
Sherlock only looked up at him, and raised his eyebrow.
Greg barked out a laugh. “Har-har, very funny,” he chuckled, and kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “Promise you won’t touch the oven again?”
Sherlock nuzzled into the crook of Greg’s neck. “Mm-hmm.”
“Good boy.” Greg stopped rubbing and patted the back of Sherlock’s nappy. “Would you still like to help with dinner?”
Sherlock sat up. “I c’ahn?”
“Sure. Just not around the oven.”
“Wha’d I do?”
“Well, first you’re gonna go pick up your toys, or Mycroft’s gonna spank the both of us.”
Sherlock giggled and wiped the last of his tears off his cheeks. ‘G’eg in t’ouble.”
“It’s not that funny. D’you want to help butter rolls?”
“Yeeeeeeeeeee’sh.”
“Alight, that’s your job. Roll-Butter’er. Right after Toy-Picker-Upper’er.”
Sherlock whinged and leaned away from Mycroft’s hand as he dutifully smeared his fair-skinned little brother in a thick coating of sunscreen. “S’oooooooooopppp’iiiiiddddd!”
“This would go a lot faster if you would sit still.”
Greg, who had been lying on the towel beside them, made no move to help. “Just let him go play, Myc.”
“If you’re not going to help, hush your mou–SHERLOCK.” Mycroft barely managed to grab a slippery toddler by the back of his swim nappy before he could escape to the water’s edge, where his playmate was already splashing. Mycroft pulled him, squirming and fussing, back into his lap. “As I was saying,” he continued over a tiny detective’s deceptively loud protests, “…If you’re not going to help, shut up.”
Greg (who still hadn’t moved a muscle) lifted his sunglassed and grinned cheekily up at his increasingly flustered boyfriend. “Are you still mad because you burned the top of your head yesterday?”
Without missing a beat (and amazingly enough, without losing his grip on his wriggling brother), Mycroft reached over and slapped Greg’s bare thigh with a resounding *CRACK* that seemed to echo out over the entire ocean in front of them.
“OW!”
Sherlock’s struggling and crying came to a full stop, and he stuck his thumb in his mouth while hardly paying any attention to the fact that it was covered in sand as he stared up at Mycroft.
Greg sat up, rubbing the full-fingered thigh turkey that had been emblazoned on his thigh. “Touchy,” he muttered.
Mycroft tutted in faux-sympathy, and continued to carefully apply sunscreen to Sherlock’s cheeks and nose. “I’m sorry,” he said, how voice dripping in saccharine-sweetness, “…are you still mad about the handprint I left on your thigh?”
Sadie: Are you referring to this one, anon? Or is there another that I’m forgetting?
Sadie: Got your reply! I’m just going to keep it in my inbox as an actual reminder to do the thing. :p
Sadie:
(finally doing the thing)
~*~*~*~*~
Thankfully, bottle-warming was not a very monopolizing task, and Mycroft had not been out of the room for five full minutes before he returned, warm bottle in hand. There had been no screams, no cries, no howls of pain or terror, so he was in no rush as he made his way back to his study, gently shaking the bottle to make sure the heat was evenly distributed.
He could hear his little brother still softly jabbering away as he approached the door, and once again, he peeked around the corner:
“…an’ you ‘mem’er, um, you ‘mem’er tha’ kid’dee? An’, an’ you say’ed tha’ kid’dee was, um, was nay’ked?” Sherlock was sitting on his heels at Jawn’s feet, playing with his toes. He took one of Jawn’s pinkie toes and rolled it between his fingers, making the smaller man break into squeaky-giggles and try to pull his foot away, with little success. “Nn-nn-nnnnnnn!” Jawn grunted.
Mycroft smirked. That was more disgustingly adorable than it ever ought to be. “Careful, Sherlock,” he reminded him as he stepped into the room. “Let go when he pulls away, pet.”
Sherlock blinked up at him. “Bu’d he y’ikes i’d!”
“I know, but we don’t want to twist one of his toes too hard when he pulls away…do we?” he cooed down Jawn, who had just now noticed what Mycroft held in his hands and was grasping for it.
Sherlock let go of Jawns’ foot and reached for the bottle, to. “I still do’id, My’coff?!”
“Of course. Here, go sit down on the couch,” Mycroft said and Sherlock scrambled to obey, nearly tripping over his own limbs while Mycroft lifted Jawn into a sitting position, then picked him up.
Sherlock folded his legs underneath him and watched his big brother carry his ‘little brother’ over, and held his arms out, waiting impatiently. “Mine.”
“There’s never been any question of that.” Mycroft carefully sat Jawn in Sherlock’s lap, and turned him the correct way for a feeding; “There, hold your arm here, under his neck…yes, there you go, you know what you’re doing, don’t you.”
“Y’ah, I ‘mem’er how,” Sherlock said, taking the bottle from Mycroft’s hand.
The elder Holmes brother stood close by and watched as Sherlock tucked Jawn in the crook of his elbow and held him close, then put the bottle to his lips.
Jawn latched on quickly, and Sherlock beamed up at Mycroft. “See, I c’n do’id!”
“Clever boy. You’re a wonderful big brother.” Mycroft ruffled Sherlocks’ hair and pinched his cheek. “Stay right here, and let me know when he’s done.”
“Why?”
“Because it will be naptime for both of you then.”
“Awww,” Sherlock groaned. “Bu’d I’m no’d tired!”
“No, but Jawn will be. Would you like to help get him ready for bed?”
Sherlock perked up. “I c’ahn?”
“Absolutely. Your help is vital.”
Sherlock grinned broadly and looked down at the tot in his lap, whose eyelids were already drooping. “C’n I, um, c’n I read ‘im a story?”
“I think he would be terribly upset if you didn’t. Sit and think of one while he eats.” Mycroft tugged on Sherlock’s ear. “And let me know when he finishes, darling.”
“O’gay.”
Mycroft went back to his desk.
Of course, Sherlock didn’t let him know exactly when Jawn was done…he may have waited a few (or ten….or fifteen) minutes to finish whispering the story that was too good to wait until naptime.
And, of course, Mycroft knew what he was doing. And he couldn’t blame his little brother for wanting to wait just a bit longer…
Because little brothers don’t stay little for long. And Mycroft knew, more than most, to enjoy it while it lasted.
Sadie: I’ve been getting so many good prompts lately! These are gold, guys!
“My’coff?”
“Yes, Sherlock?”
Sherlock looked up at his big brother from the floor. “Why, um, why is Jawn…” He looked back down at the extremely regressed man laying on a pile of blankets next to him, chewing an infant’s squishy, fabric block, then turned back to Mycroft. “Why is Jawn so, um, so qui’id?”
Mycroft pushed his chair back from his desk, stood up, and came over to them. He stooped over Jawn, gazing down at him, then reached and gently took the block from his hands and gave it a small shake in front of the little doctor’s nose, making it jingle. “Because he’s a very tiny little baby today, isn’t he?” he said with a fond smile playing on his lips.
Jawn responded with a big, toothy grin and a happy gurgle.
Sherlock watched, fascinated. Jawn was never this tiny. Never tinier than him. “A y’ittle baby?” he asked, crawling closer.
“Gentle,”Mycroft reminded him, and then handed Sherlock the jingly block. “Can you be a good big brother and play with him while I warm a bottle?”
Sherlock’s head snapped up, his mouth open in a ‘O’ of surprise. “Big br’ovver?” he asked, his voice soft with mild awe. He’d never been a big brother before.
“Yes, a big brother.” Mycroft stood up and ruffle the front of Sherlock’s hair. “Would you like to give him his bottle when I return?”
Sherlock’s eyes widened, and he beamed up at his brother. “Y’ah, p’ease!!” he babbled, returning his attention back to Jawn. “I do i’d!!”
“Then play nicely…I’ll be in the kitchen if he begins to cry.” Mycroft made his way out of the room, but stopped just on the other side of the doorway, out of sight, and peered back in…
Sherlock had picked up a different soft block from the pile nearby, and was squeezing it to make it squeak in Jawns’ face right before pulling it away as the little doctor reached for it, kicking his feet and giggling.
Mycroft waited until Jawn finally caught on to the game and succeeded in grabbing Sherlock by the wrist with a clumsy hand, making Sherlock cheer “Yay, Jawn di’ i’d! You di’ i’d!”, before he turned away to go make the tiny doctor a bottle.
Mycroft smirked; of course Sherlock would be a good big brother. He had, after all, learned from the best.
John looked up from his phone; there were few reasons why Sherlock went completely silent, and as they’d not had a particularly challenging case to keep the detective occupied in quite some time, John tried the other reason-“…did you go Little?”
Sherlock, who was sitting on the floor with his back to John (and had gone totally silent awhile ago, hence John’s question), gave no answer.
John tried again. “…Are you tiny?”
This time, Sherlock turned to look over his shoulder…
…and John saw that he was sucking on his bottom lip.
John put his phone aside and grinned. “Oh God, tell me that you’re tiny.”
A shy, half-crooked smile slowly spread across Sherlock’s face.
John clapped his hands and barked out a laugh. “Ha, yes! I’ve been wait–no, you stay right there, tiny!” He struggled to get out of his chair while trying not to trip over his own feet, and finally succeeded in heaving himself up. “You stay right there!” he said, nearly giddy with excitement as he headed for their bedroom. “Daddy has a surprise for you!”
John looked up from his phone; there were few reasons why Sherlock went completely silent, and as they’d not had a particularly challenging case to keep the detective occupied in quite some time, John tried the other reason-“…did you go Little?”
Sherlock, who was sitting on the floor with his back to John (and had gone totally silent awhile ago, hence John’s question), gave no answer.
John tried again. “…Are you tiny?”
This time, Sherlock turned to look over his shoulder…
…and John saw that he was sucking on his bottom lip.
John put his phone aside and grinned. “Oh God, tell me that you’re tiny.”
A shy, half-crooked smile slowly spread across Sherlock’s face.
John clapped his hands and barked out a laugh. “Ha, yes! I’ve been wait–no, you stay right there, tiny!” He struggled to get out of his chair while trying not to trip over his own feet, and finally succeeded in heaving himself up. “You stay right there!” he said, nearly giddy with excitement as he headed for their bedroom. “Daddy has a surprise for you!”
Oh, did he ever have a surprise. John opened their closet and pulled out the small stepstool (that he begrudgingly used after Sherlock began hiding things up on the top shelf) and found the box that he had hid up there in the back corner a few months ago, just for Sherlock’s next ‘tiny’ day.
…It had been far, far too long since Sherlock’s last ‘tiny’ day.
But, anyway. John hauled the box back down the hall, where the now-tiny detective was still sitting on the floor of the sitting room, sucking his fingers as he craned his neck to look for Daddy. His eyes grew big as he saw the box in John’s arms, and bigger still when the box was placed on the floor directly in front of him.
“That,” John said, beaming from ear to ear, “Is for you.”
Sherlock stared at the box, with it’s brightly colored pictures…namely the one of the smiling infant on it’s belly, laying on a mat.
He placed his hands on top of the box and tilted it towards him, then looked up at John, who was still grinning like an idiot.
“Yeah, you excited?” he said, and knelt down. “Here, let’s get it open!”
“D’ah!” Sherlock agreed as he sat back on his heels and watched John pop the tape that had it sealed, and lifted the lid.
No sooner that he had it open, Sherlock was leaning over with his nose in it, peering at what was inside. John laughed; “You’ve gotta let me get it out of the box first, nosey,” he said, and booped the tip of Sherlock’s nose.
Sherlock giggled and sat back again, rubbing his nose with the flat of his hand. “Nuh-uh!
“Yes-huh.” John reached into the box and came up with a plastic wrapped item that looked like a rolled sleeping bag.
Sherlock put his hand down and cocked his head to the side, staring at it. “D’ah?”
“You’ll see.” Eager to see the reaction to his present, John bit down and tore the plastic away with his teeth, and was delighted with the little gasp of surprise from the tiny detective when he finally unfurled the big play-mat he’d picked out.
A sensory play-mat, the box said. It was decorated like the overhead view of a park, complete with people, benches, a playground, and even a pond that had a clear plastic film over it, with actual water and rubber goldfish that squished around when you pressed it.
“What’dya think?” he asked, as if the open-mouth, wide-eyed epxression on his little one’s face didn’t say it all. “You wan’na play with it, or stare at it?”
Sherlock clapped and bounced on his bottom. “D’AH D’AH!”
John laughed again…chalk this up as a complete success. “Alright, scoot over so we can spread it out!”
The instant John had it laid out on the floor in all of it’s noise-making, squishy glory, Sherlock pounced on it…he crawled around giggling and pressing things, squealing with delight at each surprise he found, like the birds in the tree that chirped, or the man playing frisbee with his dog that barked, or the patch of wildflowers that crinkled and smelled a bit like light perfume when you put your nose to them.
And then, Sherlock found the pond.
“D’ah! D’ah-d’ah-d’ah-d’ah!” he babbled as he squished the fish around under the plastic, trying to catch them. He finally got tired of using his finger and having the rubber buggers slip away each time, and with one last, victorious-sounding “D’ah!”, he squished down on it with both hands…
…and then thing croaked.
Both of them were surprised, even John…neither of them had noticed the big, googly-eyed frog sitting on a log just to one side of the pond until Sherlock had hit the sensor in it. And unlike the frog, it wasn’t a cute little ‘ribbit-ribbit’ sort of croak…it was more like the frog had been hitting the bottle all night and was revisiting his dinner on the outer wall of the pub. A real ugly, belching sort-of croak.
And did he mention that it was loud? And that it repeated three times before shutting off?
Sherlock had startled back and sat up on his knees, his hands in the air, and looked around at the mat as he hadn’t known exactly what he’d touched to make that horrible noise, then looked up at John…and started to cry.
“Oh, oh no!” John said as he watched Sherlock’s little face crumble and reach for him. “No, sweetheart, it’s okay! It was just a noise!”
Well, yes, it was ‘just a noise’, but it had been a ghastly one! And ho knew what other ugly noises were left?! Tears spilled out of Sherlock’s eyes and he kept reaching for John, not wanting to move or press anything else.
John sat down on the coffee table next to him…he knew he shouldn’t laugh, not when Sherlock was upset and in tears, but God…this was too damned cute. The whole thing.”Awww, bumble,” he chuckled, and pulled Sherlock off of the mat and into a hug. “Poor baby,” he said, pressing the baby’s head to his shoulder as he cried, and petting him. “It’s okay, I promise!”
Sherlock sat up and turned back to look at the mat, still snivelling and hitching.
“You want to get back on and try again?”
Sherlock turned and re-attached himself to the crook of John’s neck with a wail;“Noooooooooo!”
Oh, my God…this was too precious! John shouldn’t be enjoying himself this much. “Shhh-sh-sh,” he soothed, patting Sherlock’s back. “What if we fix it, hm?”
‘F-f-fi’ss, fi’ss’i’d?” Sherlock snuffled.
“Yeah…Daddy can take out the bad noise and ask Nana to patch it. Does that sound better?” John kissed the side of his head…well, the part the he could reach.
“B’ah noi’?”
“Yeah, no more bad noise.”
Sherlock sniffled wetly in John’s ear, then sat up and stared down at the mat, while his thumb made it’s way into his mouth. “…’kay,” he said quietly, his thumb slurring his words.
John kissed his wet cheek, then gently brush the tears away with his hand.”Sweet boy. Let’s get you into a nappy, after a scare like that.”
Sherlock nodded. “Na’bby.”
‘So,’ John thought…maybe this hadn’t been a complete success.
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